


This Isn't a Joke, It's Merely a Sin

by AppleSharon



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Established Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-02 17:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19446103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: Crowley grabbed the book and studied it a moment. His head was still spinning and it took him a moment to make sense of the words on the page.It took him another moment to realize that the book was upside-down.Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme 2019Aziraphale buys a rare book of witch spells, Crowley doesn't believe it's real and mockingly reads one of the spells from it aloud. And it works. Now he can hear Aziraphale's thoughts and some of them are very interesting and involve Crowley.





	1. I said a little, the rest is a riddle

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom has taken me hostage in the best way. ^ ^ I'm really enjoying tackling a few of these kink meme prompt fills for A/C while finalizing the last few chapters of my first fic for them.

Several millennia before the present day, Crowley played one of his favourite jokes on Aziraphale by pretending to be wholly illiterate in any and all human languages. 

“Even Korean?” 

Aziraphale would ask this centuries later, well past the timing of the initial joke. He couldn’t possibly understand how someone as bright as Crowley couldn’t learn Hangeul in anything less than a day. 

Crowley had merely shrugged. 

The demon had played myriad jokes on Aziraphale through the years, so it said something that this was one of Crowley’s personal favourites. 

Oh he could speak them perfectly well, splendidly in fact, especially if he was attempting to coerce a human — and on occasion, Aziraphale— to do his bidding. 

(The angel did far more of the tempting between the two of them if Crowley was being completely honest, and he wasn’t, at that particular moment, being completely honest.)

However, speaking a language didn’t equal literacy and Crowley had relied on the fact that Aziraphale would take him at his word for a few reasons. 

Above all others was this: despite distrusting Crowley and automatically assuming the worst of his actions, an inability to read oddly fit Aziraphale’s perception of a demon back then. The Arrangement was a tentative agreement that already was testing Aziraphale’s limits of what a demon was, or could be. 

To Aziraphale, Crowley was a tempter and possible tormentor, clever in an everyday way, not the lofty intelligent ideal that humans had already long lionized across various societies. 

This meant that Aziraphale credited Crowley with certain things the angel shouldn’t have — particularly sins of the flesh — and also believed the worst of Crowley in certain other situations. 

The conversation went something like this. 

“Be the insufferable being of all that’s g— something in the world that you are and order me whatever would you, angel?”

Aziraphale huffed. 

“Simply read what you want off the list and I’ll order.”

“Can’t read it.”

“Oh for, Heaven’s sake, of course you can.”

“Nope.” 

And after a “p” pop and a slight pause, “Demon, remember?”

As if that explained everything. 

Aziraphale stared at him. 

“Never learned,” Crowley continued flippantly. 

Thank Satan that the Chinese had perfected portable tinted lenses prior to the 12th century. 

“Oh you poor thing.”

“Don’t you dare pity me,” Crowley hissed, slamming his now-empty glass on the table with a grimace. 

He already felt a bit badly about lying to the angel. 

So whenever it came time for him to read something during their meetups as they increased in frequency over the years, Crowley slid whatever it was over to Aziraphale and asked for some angelic help. Pleased that he could be of help at all, even to a natural enemy like a demon, Aziraphale would radiate happiness as he carefully showed Crowley what was on the restaurant menu, or read aloud from whatever book Crowley had handed him. 

Centuries passed. The two grew closer.

Over time, Crowley became sloppier about keeping up with this specific farce because he suspected that Aziraphale had known for quite some time that Crowley was pulling the wool over the angel’s eyes, as the humans would say, and was overjoyed — although he’d never admit to the “joy” part — that the two shared a common joke. 

The alternative was feeling horrifically guilty about lying to the angel for so long. 

And Crowley rather liked how Aziraphale would slid as close as possibly allowed with Heaven watching — sometimes closer if the angel was drunk — to share a menu. Few worldly experiences compared to watching Aziraphale devour a meal, making noises that went straight to parts of Crowley’s human vessel that he rarely remembered existed without thoughts of Aziraphale. 

Or seeing Aziraphale. 

Or listening to those soft moans as the angel swallowed a piece of food he found particularly tasty or scrummy or whatever odd thing Aziraphale was saying these days.

He only ate with Aziraphale for that moment when the angel leaned in and read him the menu, and to watch Aziraphale eat.

And if he thought about the way those bright eyes lit up, the small contended moans, or those plump red lips in the privacy of his own flat, no one was any the wiser. 

The plants knew not to talk, after all. 

Aziraphale’s book readings had a more calming effect that Crowley enjoyed equally to the thrill of watching Aziraphale eat. The angel’s voice often put Crowley to sleep, and when that occurred, he would watch over Crowley with love, unbeknownst to the demon outside of a few pleasant feelings that washed over him as he awoke.

The truth of these feelings was also unknown to the angel, who thought at the time that he loved Crowley in the same way he loved books or music or food. That is to say, an awful lot, but still not approaching what humans considered to be “in love.”

He was, in fact, very much in love with Crowley. The realization of this fact wouldn’t come until much later, after the pair’s involvement in the near-end of the world. 

Another fact — or outright lie depending on how charitable Crowley was feeling towards himself that day, and he rarely felt anything but disgust —survived the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Aziraphale still somehow believed, against every odd in existence that Crowley couldn’t read. 

This fact came to light following a celebratory dinner at the Ritz. A certain angel asked a certain demon whether he wanted to join him in a post-meal aperitif at a certain restored bookshop so the rightful owner — back in his rightful body, thank you very much — could peruse his wares. 

(Really, they were would-be wares, as Aziraphale was loathe to part with anything he claimed to be selling.)

The demon couldn’t have answered anything but, “Yes.” 

A small gasp accompanied Aziraphale’s widened eyes as he unlocked the door in a human way that he didn’t have to and crossed the threshold into his bookshop. 

The sound would stay with Crowley forever.

This gasp was followed by a smile that made Crowley, despite his sunglasses, instinctively squint from the brightness.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen the shop as Crowley had a mere day ago, and Crowley had been loathe to tell him (twice) that it had burned down. The angel’s reaction both times had been muted but excruciating for Crowley to watch. 

In that moment, Crowley vowed to himself that whenever he recalled the bookshop fire he would remember this exact look on Aziraphale’s face to chase away the despair. 

He then spent the next hours with a bottle (then a second bottle) of Chateau Lafleur 1994 grumbling loudly about the angel’s insistence that now was the time to perform the first ever official store inventory while also trying to entice Aziraphale into a drinking game. 

“A proper inventory, my dear boy, doesn’t come with alcohol.”

“That’s what you think.”

“C’mon, angel. We just saved the world.”

“I hardly think a drinking game is appropriate for work.”

“The point isn’t to be appropriate! The point is to get soused!”

After a pause Crowley added.

“And have fun!”

The best drinking games did both, although Crowley was having the time of his life watching the angel rediscover his own collection, no game necessary despite his previous wheedling.

So Aziraphale continued to wander around the bookshop, marvelling at his own book collection while his steps grew increasingly unsteady. Crowley removed his sunglasses at some point — he couldn’t remember where he had discarded them — and picked up a large, dusty tome from the floor. 

“Oi! Where’d this one come from?”

He didn’t wait for an answer from the angel and squinted at the words on the page. As his head swam pleasantly with good wine, Crowley couldn’t find it in himself to pay attention enough to actually read. Closing his eyes, the book laid across his chest on a page at random, Crowley smiled. 

“Mmmmmmmmmmm. That’s mmmm—“

Aziraphale’s speech became full of drawn-out hums when inebriated. Crowley had learned over time that it was because the angel was trying to sound as sober as possible, choosing his words wisely — although that wasn’t always what actually came out. 

Crowley opened one eye and watched Aziraphale’s mouth open and close. He licked his lips as he tuned out Aziraphale’s words completely until he noticed that the angel’s face was much closer to his than he had previously thought. 

“Ah! I just remb— reb— recalled.”

Crowley started at the small outburst. The book slid off of his chest and onto the floor. 

Aziraphale’s face was very close. Crowley stared at the angel’s upturned nose. He licked his lips again and involuntarily leaned his hips upwards, suppressing the urge to kiss Aziraphale. 

The angel was smiling gently down at him with a proud expression. 

“It is a rare book of w-witches’ spells, my dear.” 

Aziraphale enunciated this sentence as best he could, but the effect was unfortunately ruined by a slight slur and a punctual hiccup. 

Patting the top of Crowley’s head, Aziraphale reached down to pick up the leather-bound book from the floor. 

Crowley wished the angel was facing away from him so he could have watched Aziraphale’s plush thighs strain against the fabric of the angel’s pants. 

Still smiling, Aziraphale handed the book back to Crowley. The demon started to take the book back — internally searching his wine-soaked brain for a way to somehow run his hands up the spine and stroke Aziraphale’s fingers — before Aziraphale startled him with another, “Ah!”

The angel then looked quite depressed, pouting as his eyes fell to Crowley’s with sudden unshed tears making an appearance. 

Crowley had no idea of what to do, or what had brought this on. Furthermore, he was in no state to address any sort of sad emotions from Aziraphale. In fact, the only thought going through Crowley’s mind as soon as he saw the angel’s face was that Aziraphale only deserved to be happy. 

It was quite sappy, really. Were he sober, Crowley would have been disgusted with himself. But wine, relief, and the realization that Up Above and Down Below wouldn’t be watching had freed Crowley’s last inhibitions. 

“What’sssssssss wrong, angel?”

His sibilant s’s made their scheduled drunken appearance. 

“Mmmmmm. I just re—recalled that you aren’t able to read and that it’s terribly sad.”

Crowley reached up and wiped the tears from the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Angel.”

He said this in his most reverent tone. 

“Angel, I can read.” 

Still pouting, Aziraphale blinked at Crowley wearily.

“I promisssssssse I can!”

Crowley grabbed the book and studied it a moment. His head was still spinning and it took him a moment to make sense of the words on the page. 

It took him another moment to realize that the book was upside-down. 

A third moment and he found himself looking Aziraphale directly in the eyes, reading a short Latin poem from the first page he turned to. 

Latin was a language that Crowley quite loved the sound of, and occasionally spoke it to Aziraphale when he was bored. He could read it perfectly, even in such a state, and made sure to speak as clearly as possible. When he was finished, he looked at Aziraphale expectantly. 

For his part, Aziraphale swayed on his feet and appeared quite confused.

Ssssee I can read," Crowley said. 

The demon squinted at the pages of the book, realizing that he hadn't understand a word of what he had just read. He wasn't even certain as to whether it had been Latin at all, but was too drunk to think on it further.

“It’s all rubbisssssssh anyway. No sssssssssuch thing ’s witchessssss.”

_Madame Tracy was a witch. She was lovely._

Aziraphale sounded mildly offended on her behalf. Crowley waved his hand lazily in the air. 

“More of a medium, wasn’t she? Anyway there’sssss no sssssuch thing as spellssssss. That’s just a way for the humansssss to make more money. I ssssshould know.”

_One of yours, my love?_

“One of theirsssss probably.”

Aziraphale nodded. Somehow his hands had found their way onto Crowley’s head, raking his manicured fingernails through Crowley’s scalp. 

Crowley shivered.

What had once been a perfectly-tousled style was now a messy shock of auburn and ginger hair. 

_I love you._

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley slurred. 

He then promptly fell over onto Aziraphale’s couch, asleep before he could sober away the alcohol or realize that Aziraphale hadn’t actually spoken this aloud.


	2. Life is too short to say it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The voice Crowley heard was certainly Aziraphale’s. It carried an even deeper tone of fondness than Crowley was used to hearing from the angel and wouldn’t that be something he would definitely be focusing on exclusively if it hadn’t been for the fact that Aziraphale’s mouth hadn’t moved at all._
> 
> _Aziraphale’s face was flushed, but his lips were closed in a warm smile._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts are italicized. Enjoy. ^ ^

_—never much cared for Mister Charles Tansley. Mister Ramsay is bad enough at times in this book, but even he sets things to right in that lovely moment with James on the sailboat._

Crowley woke to sunlight filtering onto a couch in Aziraphale’s back office, a screaming headache, and these words ringing inside his pounding head. 

The words, which reverberated through his mind as if the angel was beside him, should have been the demon’s first clue that something was amiss. They were more of Aziraphale’s personal opinion on a book than Crowley usually heard. 

Aziraphale read to him occasionally, but rarely deviated from the text, as if reading whatever book he had chosen for Crowley in that moment with as much passion as possible would imbue Crowley with the desire to read. 

Or, at least, learn to read.

Crowley sat up with a start. He nearly collapsed in the next moment due to the dizziness and pain.

Easing himself back into a horizontal position on the sofa, Crowley attempted to piece together the evening. 

There had been something about reading. 

Crowley remembered Aziraphale bending over at one point, giving him the perfect view of the angel’s arse straining against his trousers.

The demon quickly filed that thought away, shifting slightly. 

He had read from a book revealing to the angel that he could actually read and Aziraphale had cried. 

That seemed right but Crowley felt like he was missing something important. Everything was hazy in his memory. 

He cursed himself for falling asleep before sobering up. 

It was an odd quirk of their human vessels, and one that should have served as a constant reminder to will themselves sober before doing something even more human like sleeping. 

For Crowley, this had only happened once before. Once was enough to learn, until the day after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and suddenly Crowley thought to himself that he would likely have to relearn a lot of things now that their respective ties to their head offices had been effectively severed.

If not severed, loosened. 

He could still hear Aziraphale chattering loudly about whatever book he was reading. 

_Now Lily! What a charming young lady—_

“Angel?”

Speaking aloud was a mistake. Nausea bubbled up in his stomach and acid burned in his throat. His voice was a harsh rasp that sounded altogether too loud for his ears at that moment. 

_Ah! The serpent wakes!_

Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s musical laughter approaching from the shop interior. It felt warm. He closed his eyes allowing the warmth to wash over him like the sunlight. 

“How are you feeling, my dear?”

Aziraphale said this with a wry, soft smile that was reserved for times that Crowley’s best-laid plans had backfired on the demon spectacularly. 

Crowley gave a dramatic groan, shifting his hand to block the light from his eyes. 

“S’too bright,” he mumbled hoarsely. “‘Nd my head hurts.”

He squinted through his fingers up at Aziraphale, realizing that he had taken his sunglasses off at some point the night before. 

Aziraphale clucked his tongue at Crowley in mock-disapproval. Tucking Virginia Woolf’s _To the Lighthouse_ under his arm, he handed Crowley a glass of water with a pleased look. 

_You lovely, silly thing. And so beautiful. You’ve always been so lovely and lithe about the way you move through space._

The voice Crowley heard was certainly Aziraphale’s. It carried an even deeper tone of fondness than Crowley was used to hearing from the angel and wouldn’t that be something he would definitely be focusing on exclusively if it hadn’t been for the fact that Aziraphale’s mouth hadn’t moved at all. 

Aziraphale’s face was flushed, but his lips were closed in a warm smile.  
Crowley sat up abruptly, swallowing down stomach bile that threatened to make its way up and looking straight at Aziraphale with confusion. 

“What did you say?”

Aziraphale hummed curiously. 

“I didn’t say anything my dear, but you are a rather silly serpent for not sobering up before you slept.”

“Oh and I suppose you did?”

“Yes, I did. You know I don’t sleep, so I sobered up and decided to revisit Virginia Woolf for the rest of the night.”

The angel’s words were all mirth. He took the glass back from Crowley and placed it on his desk, noticeably away from a pile of manuscripts in the corner. 

_I wish I could— Oh, please say it again, my dearest so I can touch you._

Aziraphale’s mouth still hadn’t moved. Crowley felt a wave of dread wash over him alongside the constant pounding in his head and the turning of his stomach. 

“Say it again?” Crowley asked. 

“I said, you know I don’t sleep, so I—“

“No, the other thing.”

“My dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry,” Crowley abruptly said. 

At this moment, two things happened simultaneously. 

“I’m sorry I lied about not being able to read, it just—“

_Please don’t apologize for loving me, my dearest._

Aziraphale’s mouth still hadn’t moved, but Crowley’s jaw dropped. He didn’t understand. 

“I can hear,” Crowley said. Without finishing his sentence he pointed a trembling, slender finger at Aziraphale.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly. He swallowed his nausea, wishing once again that he could magically rid himself of his hangover. 

_Oh Crowley. My love. Please, don’t ever be sorry about that._

“Crowley, I—“

Stumbling backwards as if he had been burned, Crowley fled. The sound of the Bentley’s tires squealing rung in Aziraphale’s ears as he looked out of the open door of the bookshop in confusion.

***

“So, I can hear the angel’s thoughts,” Crowley said aloud, hours later, to a roomful of trembling plants.

“And he loves me. But he also loves everything.”

He had been pacing around the room energetically, trying to piece together fragments of his woefully human memory at this point in time.

Crowley had spent the majority of the afternoon cursing at the plants rather than saying anything of note, although he had remembered one important detail about an hour into his nervous pacing. 

He had read from a book of supposed witches’ spells to prove that he could read while looking Aziraphale in the eyes, and now could hear the angel’s thoughts. 

“Fucking witches,” Crowley snarled. “Putting their spells in a book where anyone can read them it’s fucking irresponsible, that’s what.”

He sounded a bit like Aziraphale did when the angel was put out, minus the cursing, and Crowley shoved this thought immediately to the back of his brain. 

“I have to tell him. This isn’t fucking right.”

Crowley threw a terra cotta planter across the room. It was empty. The plants trembled violently. He winced at the noise, head still tender from the night before. 

This wasn’t how Crowley had wanted to go about things at all. 

Crowley hadn’t given a lot of thought to what would come next, but Aziraphale was a given, a constant. He had aligned himself to Aziraphale for millennia, and now that the two were allowed to, in the angel’s words, fraternize, as much as they pleased, Crowley had looked forward to a nebulous future where they could have that picnic Aziraphale had wanted. 

After all, they had dined at the Ritz just last evening. 

Now that those plans had been accelerated beyond his control, Crowley responded in the same, haphazard way that had brought about their conflict at the bandstand, and Alpha Centauri, and their row on the sidewalk in front of the angel’s bookshop. 

“I can’t do this.”

He grabbed his car keys and in seconds was in front of Aziraphale’s Soho storefront. 

Crowley stormed through the bookshop door, slamming it behind him. 

“Everybody out!”

_Crowley?_

Looking around wildly, Crowley’s eyes quickly found the worn leather cover. He picked up the old book and stalked towards the back office. 

“Crowley! There’s no one here, my dear boy.”

_Thank goodness he returned. I was afraid._

Aziraphale met him in the doorway, book in hand and looking rather put out. His next series of thoughts were a bit less charitable. 

_Imagine if there was and he entered in such a state. Why they would likely think I’m being burglarized—_

“Never mind that, or what anything looks like, just read this,” Crowley growled.

_The last time I saw him like this was when he asked me to go to Alpha Centauri. Oh, love I did so want to go but—“_

“Please!” Crowley said. His voice broke on the word. 

He shoved the book into Aziraphale’s hands, pressing it open on the necessary page. Nodding his head he looked Aziraphale up and down, gesturing towards the book. 

“Please.”

While Aziraphale stared at him in confusion, Crowley paced on the worn pattern of one of the shop’s many Persian rugs. He ran his fingers through his hair violently. It stuck up at all angles as he paced with the liquid sway of his hips that he’d always had as a human. 

_Something must have happened._

As if it could keep Aziraphale’s thoughts out of his head, Crowley stuck both of his fingers in his ears and continued to pace.

“What are you waiting for?” 

His voice was a harsh growl. Husky and distressed, it still lacked any trace of malice. 

_He remembered. I suppose I should prepare myself for—_

Aziraphale’s voice sounded impossibly sad inside of Crowley’s head.

“Do it, angel!”

Crowley removed his sunglasses and stared straight into Aziraphale’s eyes.

_Gorgeous._

Aziraphale blinked. The angel looked down at the book that Crowley had handed him, tilting his head inquisitively.

“Is this Latin?” 

_Really this is rather silly. I can barely make out what this is saying._

Crowley laughed. It sounded like a sob. 

“It doesn’t matter, angel. Just read it. Please.”

_I don’t understand but if it means that much to him. Something must have happened. If I do this, then I should be able to ask him afterwards._

It was rather pragmatic of the angel. Crowley bit his tongue to keep himself from saying this aloud. 

Aziraphale read the passage. Crowley kept his eyes focused on Aziraphale the entire time. 

“Right. Okay,” Crowley said after a moment had passed.

_Was something supposed to happen?_

Crowley willed himself to think only one word for a moment.

_Okay. Okay. Okay._

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Sit down,” Crowley croaked aloud. “Please.”

He continued to repeat “Okay” in his head. It no longer sounded like a word. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began. “I can hear—“

 _I love you._

Crowley kept his eyes on Aziraphale as he thought, knowing the angel could hear him. 

_This isn’t how I fu— wanted to do this but that spell is for reading thoughts and it somehow worked I don’t know how, all witches should bugger off really except for that one down in Tadfield I suppose she was alright._

Aziraphale laughed aloud.

“Crowley—“

“Shhhh!”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in his, noting how the angel’s pupils widened significantly. He began to stroke Aziraphale’s palms slowly. 

_I’ve loved you for millennia, angel. From the moment we met on the wall I knew you were different. You’re a titan as the Greeks would say. You’re Prometheus. You’re warmth and light and I love you. And f— d— blast it all that sounds cheesy._

Tears began to gather at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes.

“My dear, that’s blasphemy,” the angel said, sniffling.

Crowley lifted a hand to brush the tears aside before touching Aziraphale’s lips. They parted and gave Crowley’s index finger a trembling kiss. Crowley shivered. 

_Aziraphale_ Crowley thought.

“I’m a demon,” he said aloud with a shrug. It lacked the unapologetic, casual nature that Crowley attempted to imbue in similar verbal hand-waving attempts through the years. 

“I’m a demon, Zira. Can you still?”

Crowley’s voice was soft, softer than Aziraphale had ever heard it across millennia on Earth. It held a question that Aziraphale finally, after centuries of repressing his own feelings on the matter, could answer. 

“Oh Crowley. I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying this story. I fell in love with the prompt as soon as I read it. 
> 
> The next chapter will be straight up smut. ^ ^


	3. It's all in the punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Upon the angel’s return, Crowley pressed the book into Aziraphale’s hands with a much different type of urgency than the first time, but a crackling impatience all the same._
> 
> _“Do it, angel.”_

“Of all the nerve!”

Cheeks reddening, Aziraphale wiped his hands on his cream-coloured trousers, leaving a dust streaks on his thighs. A cloud of dust rose from a nearby cardboard box, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts to remove a stack of first editions as carefully as possible. 

Crowley leaned back on his wrists and watched the angel, entertained at the picture developing in front of him. 

“He made it sound like I was your, your rent boy or some other nonsense!”

The angel rose from where he had been seated on the hardwood floor. Crowley imperceptibly leaned forward, enjoying the view as Aziraphale’s trousers rose up, tucking neatly around the angel’s arse while, as they strained around the front, giving Crowley a reminder at Aziraphale’s decision to make an Effort over the past few years. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, eyes bright and unobstructed by his usual dark lenses. They were in their new home, after all. Crowley had no need of them here, or in front of the angel at all, as Aziraphale had made quite clear as they tumbled into a more obvious partnership following the book incident. 

He considered saying something to the effect of, “I wouldn’t mind being your rent boy, angel.” Or, alternatively, striking from his position on the floor that he was lazily stretched across to capture the angel’s mouth with a more affirmative, “I’ll be your rent boy anytime, angel.” pushing his tongue past Aziraphale’s trembling lips. 

Adjusting himself in a rather obvious way, Crowley continued to take in the sight of Aziraphale pacing around their recently-purchased cottage. Crowley’s eyes followed the angel’s soft thighs and plush arse with undisguised interest. 

His fingers twitched, tapping rhythmically on the lacquer treatment of the hardwood. Crowley could spend, and had spent, an inordinate amount of time with his face buried between those thighs, hands sinking into Aziraphale’s behind, squeezing as the angel wriggled and moaned in his arms. 

The demon simply had to figure out how to get to that point from where Aziraphale was currently: rambling about an unfortunate encounter with a human at a petrol station on their journey from London to their new home in South Downs. 

He knew, more than anyone, how difficult it was to stop the angel from ranting once he started. 

Aziraphale paced for approximately fifteen minutes while Crowley settled back onto the floor, sifting through the angel’s books, pretending not to know how Aziraphale wanted them organized for his own amusement.

“Truly, dear, it doesn’t bother you?”

Crowley looked up to find Aziraphale suddenly close, crouching down next to Crowley who was now surrounded by stacks of books on the floor. 

He sighed and reached up, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s messy curls. 

“If you want to unpack the human way, I do think it’s a waste of time when we could just miracle all of this into place and get onto more important things.”

Crowley leered and placed particular emphasis on “important things.”

“Not that, the fact that, well…”

Aziraphale’s voice trailed off as he clasped his fingers together nervously. He sunk fully on the floor, but remained seated primly, back perfectly straight despite having nothing to support it. 

“That young man at the petrol pump.” 

Aziraphale started again and Crowley stared back, bemused.

“He seemed to think that you were, ah, a kept young man. And I was your, well…”

Reddening, Aziraphale puffed his cheeks with a long breath that his corporation did not actually need before releasing it slowly. Crowley watched him without blinking. 

“Dearest,” Aziraphale began. “You don’t mind that I look older than you. That people think…”

Crowley shrugged. 

“They’re humans. They come up with all sorts of reasons and explanations.”

“Yes, but you must know how it looks, for me to appear so much older—“ 

Out of patience and sensing that Aziraphale’s ire had mostly passed, Crowley growled and lunged forward, finally capturing the angel’s lips. He knotted one hand in Aziraphale’s hair while the other one snuck to the angel’s backside and gave it a firm squeeze. 

Aziraphale whined loudly. The two sunk onto the floor rather unceremoniously, gasping into each other’s mouths.

“Wait! Wait, Crowley stop.”

Aziraphale giggled through saying this, returning every one of Crowley’s kisses as he said it. 

Crowley groaned but pulled away as requested. 

“What isssss it angel?” 

The slight hiss gave away the demon’s arousal and displeasure at the interruption. 

“This is a rather uncomfortable location, my dear. There’s a book digging into my spine.”

Aziraphale arched his back and pulled out a green leather-bound book from underneath him. 

Crowley’s eyes widened. 

“You actually kept that thing!?”

His finger trembled a bit with annoyance as he pointed at the offending tome. 

“For Go—, Sat—, Somebody’s sake that book is dangerous! It allowed me to hear your thoughts! Who knows what else it can do.”

Crowley backed away from the book in Aziraphale’s hands.

“Dearest, it brought us together.”

“We would have gotten there eventually,” Crowley grumbled. “At least put it down.”

Aziraphale watched the flustered demon for a moment before pulling Crowley towards him, sliding the book onto the floor with care. 

“Angel.” 

Crowley growled, brushing his fingers softly at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck where his blond curls became a soft fuzz. 

“I think you’ll find that our bedroom has been miraculously unpacked and settled.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue with an admonishing “tut-tut” noise in response, but picked up Crowley all the same, the demon happily wrapping around Aziraphale and allowing himself to be carried up the short flight of stairs.

***

A fortnight passed. 

Their home furnished — half the human way, per Aziraphale’s request, and half demonic miracles, per Crowley’s impatience — the two had settled into a rather domestic and simple pattern. 

Crowley couldn’t recall a happier time in his entire existence, including what he could remember from his time Up Above. This was, as Aziraphale had said during his initial confession, quite blasphemous, but Crowley couldn’t bring himself to care. 

With Aziraphale off on some errand or another on this particular morning, Crowley stomped around his greenhouse for a bit before coming indoors to terrorize the houseplants. He had to take advantage of every possible moment Aziraphale was out to remind the plants of who was really in charge in this household. 

They trembled accordingly but didn’t believe a word that came out of the demon’s mouth. That being said, they still grew splendidly, basking in the love that permeated every inch of the cottage. 

As Crowley rounded on the final planter, a hanging Boston fern, he noticed a green, leather-bound book tucked into the small bookshelf that Aziraphale kept in the corner. Sighing, Crowley opened it and absentmindedly flipped through until he found the page that had — he admitted to himself somewhat bitterly — given their relationship a final push over an imaginary finish line. 

Or starting line, really, Crowley thought to himself with amusement. 

The Boston fern forgotten, Crowley rubbed his index finger and thumb across the yellowed page with a smirk. 

If Aziraphale was really that sentimental to hold onto something like this — he was, and Crowley was just as sentimental as his angel although he’d never admit it aloud — they may as well have some fun with it. 

Upon the angel’s return, Crowley pressed the book into Aziraphale’s hands with a much different type of urgency than the first time, but a crackling impatience all the same. 

“Do it, angel.”

The words rolled off of Crowley’s tongue suggestively as he took the bag of groceries from Aziraphale’s hand, placing it on the countertop before brushing the angel’s knuckles with his lips. Aziraphale wiggled, blushing as he held the spellbook in one hand while Crowley lavished the other with his tongue. 

“Look at me, dearest,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley looked up and stared into Aziraphale’s eyes, shivering with anticipation. 

No sooner had Aziraphale finished reciting the words than Crowley’s thoughts immediately jumped into his head. 

_—so soft I could spend years between your thighs, angel, lapping up your cock, that perfect little pink thing so eager—_

“Crowley!”

There was no bite to Aziraphale’s words, just a slight embarrassment and a full body flush as Crowley returned the favour from a fortnight ago, gathering the angel in his arms and carrying him to their bedroom. He managed to sneak kisses onto Aziraphale’s neck as he walked, the angel moaning and squirming in Crowley’s arms. 

_You ruin me, angel._

Crowley deposited Aziraphale onto the bed and slowly began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. As more bare skin was revealed, Crowley nipped his way down Aziraphale’s body, sucking hard and then washing his tongue over purpling bruises with small kisses.

_Did you know that I wanted to do this for over six thousand years before we got together, angel?_

He dragged his tongue across one of Aziraphale’s nipples before swiftly moving down to the soft curve of the angel’s belly and burying his face in it. Aziraphale keened and whined, lifting his hips up off of the bed, grinding into Crowley’s chest. 

_Not so fast. I go too fast for you, remember?_

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped. 

Crowley pinned Aziraphale to the sheets, fingers loosely gripping the angel’s wrists and his continued to move further down Aziraphale’s body.

_When we were in Rome I wanted to feed you those oysters. Every moan you made went straight to my cock angel—_

Still pressing Aziraphale into the mattress, Crowley rolled his hips, rubbing his erection against Aziraphale’s body. 

_In the Bastille I wanted to keep you in chains, slowly undo your trousers and bury my face between your thighs, grabbing your arse while you fucked my mouth. You were all dressed and tied up like a present for me to unwrap._

Aziraphale screamed something unintelligible that was supposed to be Crowley’s name but devolved into a high-pitched moan as he rutted into Crowley. The demon continued his ministrations, moving down Aziraphale’s thighs, sucking and licking as he wordlessly made his thoughts known. 

_Even in bloody Eden I wanted to taste you—_

The angel thrust his hips forward again. This time, his cock found solace in the warmth of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley continued, taking Aziraphale in before removing his mouth with a pop. Aziraphale cried out at the absence and then moaned again when Crowley’s mouth returned.

_You’re doing so well, angel. You’re beautiful. You’ve always been so beautiful and plump and perfect—_

Crowley kept this up for another half hour, thinking things he would never say aloud, Aziraphale’s moans and soft shrieks echoing through the cottage until he finally came, spilling into Crowley’s mouth. The demon lapped up every drop with a wink, twisting his own cock in his hand and following Aziraphale’s orgasm with one of his own before releasing the angel. They both sank into the bed, exhausted. 

_I guess those bloody witches are good for something._

Aziraphale could only giggle, nosing at Crowley’s neck with a soft kiss before the demon dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. I hope everyone enjoyed this version of the story and I'm crossing my fingers that it met the original anon's expectations. 
> 
> As I've mentioned in comments, there's another path to write where it happens a bit more slowly, with Crowley accidentally stumbling upon Aziraphale thinking of him in a sensual or sexual way. If I have time after attending to the other A/C stories I'm currently writing, I might add that version of this prompt as bonus chapters. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I shamelessly use Sondre Lerche lyrics for titles because I cannot think of my own.


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